


Spark

by levitatethis



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Reality, Angst, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-18
Updated: 2010-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:20:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the face of an uncertain future Mohinder makes a personal sacrifice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spark

_“Found the places I’m destroying  
Only hoped you’d be there still  
Could not find a way to be it  
I don’t even mind this time  
Here we’d like to get things over  
Life love anything at all  
And when the morning comes  
We’ll sit here  
And when the atom breaks  
We’ll just stare  
And my life goes underground  
Andy my life goes underground”_   
**-Moist, _Underground_  
**

Mohinder has no idea what he is looking for, only that he cannot stop until he finds it. Under the pretense of ‘spring cleaning’ his apartment from top to bottom, he searches. He re-shelves books, reorganizes the kitchen cupboards, and tosses out horded scraps of paper.

In his bedroom he unpacks the closet and drawers. He sets aside old clothes in a pile on the bed for the Salvation Army. The rest he properly hangs and folds, putting them back in place. Working up a sweat, it mats the end curls of his hair to the back of his neck and glues his t-shirt to his skin. Uncomfortable as he is, he uses his right hand to pull at the bottom of the shirt, forcing the material away from his chest and then back. He waves it enough to create a small waft of cool air up below the material, and then wipes his right forearm across his brow.

Huffing a contemplative breath, he stands with both hands on his hips and eyes the room suspiciously, like it is guarding a secret he is desperate to uncover. With his mouth half open he juts his tongue up by the back left molar, feeling the hard ridges and the barest hint of pain. His gaze falls on the nightstand next to the bed and he walks over, opening and closing the drawer.

He grows increasingly agitated which only frustrates him more. Turning around suddenly he hits his right foot against the side of the bed and shouts in pain as his toe flares with a throbbing ache. Annoyed with himself he sits on the floor, propping his back up against the side of the bed, and crosses his left leg under him while keeping the right one bent. Gently he touches his fingers to the baby toe of his right foot and grimaces at how tender it is, numb with heat. Dropping his hand to the floor his fingers touch something that has fallen under the bed.

He picks up the watch and holds it in front of him. The air goes out of his body as he rubs his right thumb across the surface. He stills and reads the brand name in the middle of the watch’s face.

Sylar.

Mohinder sighs deeply and hangs his head forward, closing his eyes. Exhaustedly, he drops his right hand to the floor and lets the watch roll free next to him. All of a sudden the room suffocates him while, at the same time, feeling incredibly empty.

Peter had given him the watch years before when they believed Sylar to be dead not, as it turned out, in the shape-shifted body of Nathan. It was meant to be a memento, a token commemorating the end of one tragic chapter in their lives.

When had it turned into a keepsake?

  
************ ********** ********** ********** **********  
**

Peter pushes his dirty plate away and cups the mug of coffee in front of him with both hands. Mohinder leans back in the booth, his right hand around the handle of his mug of tea, his left arm draped out across the top of the backrest behind him.

Their eyes meet briefly and Peter slowly lifts the mug to his lips, saying, “He’s doing better than we thought,” before taking a small sip.

Mohinder feels scrutinized as Peter inspects him from behind the mug; he keeps his reaction neutral. “Is that so?” he maintains a flat voice, suggesting indifference. But the way Peter’s lips twist into a small smile tells Mohinder that it does not matter that Peter has kept his promise to not read Mohinder’s mind, it is not difficult to put two and two together.

“Yeah, that’s so.” Peter watches him take a sip of tea then adds, “You know, this game you two keep playing—,”

“There’s—no—there’s no game—,”

“Oh, there’s a bit of one—,”

“I promise I have no idea what you are talking about?”

Peter smiles broadly at the waitress and waits for her to clear their table and move on. He slides his mug in small circles over the same spot on the table making a quiet scraping sound. He looks up at Mohinder. “You two have always had this…thing.”

Mohinder shakes his head in disagreement, but Peter does not stop.

“And I’m sure I wouldn’t get half of it if I tried. You know it was easy to ignore until he…_came back from the dead_. I don’t know…maybe it’s working _with_ each other that’s made it harder for you two to handle—,”

“We’re hardly working with each other,” Mohinder scoffs.

“Except you are, in a way,” Peter counters and leans forward, emphasizing his point with a brash whisper. “He’s on our side.”

“For now,” Mohinder points out, keen to remind him that Sylar is not suddenly trustworthy despite appearances to the contrary. Increasingly Mohinder finds himself intently holding onto old versions of the man that make more sense than the confused one that intermittently rattles the walls of his mind.

Peter stares at him and clears his throat while rolling his eyes. “For awhile now. Anyway, we knew working with Sylar, especially after what happened to him because of my mom and Noah, was going to be a risk. You think he’s been laying in wait all this time?”

“He killed Madelaine,” Mohinder says, ignoring the joking manner in which Peter turns the discussion. He raises his mug to take a sip then changes his mind and lowers it to the table. He does not want to think about Sylar living out some sort of normal life, going though the acceptable daily motions that are far removed from the life he lived at one time.

“I didn’t forget,” Peter replies briskly and emits an exasperated sigh to calm down. “So imagine our surprise that things are going really well with Diego.”

The name causes Mohinder to pause, the briefest hesitation still noticeable enough to Peter. Mohinder has already met Diego, who has the very useful gift of x-ray vision, twice. The first time was actually when Mohinder and Sylar were tentatively working together to restore what Matt had done to Sylar under Angela and Noah’s orders. Peter, bitter over the true loss of his brother, had found Diego in the hopes of helping Mohinder without them getting into invasive, and potentially mad scientist, territory; drawing unwanted attention.

Mohinder liked Diego from the start. In fact a few people, including Claire, had commented on the similarities in their personalities. It makes sense, now, that Diego and Sylar would hit it off, but the confirmation still tightens Mohinder’s stomach.

“Four months,” Peter says, answering the unasked question and Mohinder wonders if Peter has read his thoughts for a moment or actually knows him that well.

“Good.” Mohinder shrugs off the answer. He wants to not care that Sylar has connected well enough with someone else in the same way that had applied to only the two of them once upon a time.

_Replaced.  
_  
It was better to ensure a safe distance and disconnect, moving on in a way that benefited them all. The last thing any of them needed was more distractions.

“Yeah, good,” Peter says unconvincingly.

  
************ ********** ********** ********** ************

  
Mohinder heard the stories that followed Sylar and the musical chairs of his constantly changing partners after they had worked together. Colourful and dramatic accounts (_gossip, really_) worried Mohinder for the safety threat posed to those on their side, as well as those who were to be protected.

Parting ways had come at Mohinder’s own insistence, he reminds himself. It was an announcement that had been met with surprise and very restrained irritation (_anger_) on Sylar’s part, but Mohinder refused to back down. What was beginning to unfold between them had to be stopped swiftly and unapologetically.

But it was far from easy. Nothing ever was anymore with Mohinder.

Simple would have been that Nathan was really Nathan and the new Company was a government funded, publicly accountable organization operating under the manifesto of helping people with abilities.

The reality was that Nathan was dead and Sylar had been manipulated into not only taking his form but believing he _was_ him. The truth splintered any remaining bond between Peter and his mother, Claire and her father, Mohinder and Matt. With trust in short supply “the betrayed” (as Claire spat out) formed a grassroots group that co-existed with The Company, but otherwise had little contact besides superficial conversations. With no outside funding, their more amateurish organization became the second job that had to be supplemented by primary jobs—Peter continued life as a paramedic, Mohinder went back to driving a cab, and Claire took on a job in a bookstore. Everyone that worked with them lived like a double agent; that was the cost they willingly paid.

Their first mission of order was containing Sylar, but not as Nathan, as himself.

It meant that, once again, Mohinder and Sylar spent a lot of time together, one-on-one. It was cautious going at first, then—familiarity wasn’t quite the right word to describe the overwhelming feeling of déjà vu that flowed over Mohinder. More to the point was the fact that it was not accompanied by the usual bout of sickness that came with recalling their old footsteps.

Work—tests, theories, research—made up less and less of their conversations until it was a side note to topics of travel, growing up, adolescent dreams for the future versus reality, embarrassing moments and heartbreaks. Mohinder stopped thinking of Sylar as a killer, first and foremost. That factual tidbit was not in question, but it stopped defining who Sylar was in his mind. That was the first clue.

The second was that Mohinder began looking forward to seeing Sylar. It would have been fine if it were simply indifference—acceptance—towards hanging out with Sylar for the greater good of their cause, but yearning for it? Checking the clock as it counted down the hours and minutes until their next face-to-face?

Then there was the third (_three strikes and you’re out_) clue that their relationship had been altered enough to spike concern. They had never been shy about invading each other’s personal space, but where it had once been part of a calculated con and, later, tactical imposition, the next time around it was friendlier, easier, even suggestive. Long gazes twitched up small smiles, a shared laugh elicited a dramatic shoulder shove, and fingers touched (_lingered_) a split second too long.

Their bodies and minds tuned into the same frequency. Mohinder would sense Sylar’s approach minutes before it happened. He would feel his presence, prickling up the hairs on his skin, as Sylar moved up behind him to look over his shoulder; standing _too_ close, the heat from his body would melt over Mohinder’s and the spill of his breath would be warm against Mohinder’s cheek. On more than one occasion Mohinder had shown up unexpectedly at Sylar’s apartment to find him waiting, the table spread with light snacks and hot water brewing for tea.

It was…_nice_, that strange and long awaited chapter finally unraveling against all expectations.

Mohinder fantasized about _what ifs_ that heated his skin and layered a light sheen overtop, that guided his hand below his waistband to take hold of himself, that made him arch up into his fist while groaning incomprehensible phrases.

It was a problem.

Mohinder knew it should be unacceptable. Not only was he losing track of his own research but he was forgetting how he _should_ feel towards Sylar. He was letting go of old pains and personal missions, for what? It was something that could never rationally be. How would he ever explain _them_ to everyone else, let alone himself, his mother?

Making an executive decision, he bit the bullet and ended it before it truly began. He figured that the short term hurt would subside faster than something that was allowed to grow. That was the theory, at least. Peter was nice enough to not debate him on the issue, although Mohinder figured that Peter may have taken a quick scan of his thoughts for confirmation.

Sylar had narrowed his eyes into a powerful glint at Mohinder’s order that they would be working with other people better suited to their adjusted individual goals. He had not fought Mohinder hard, but his silence was a stifling weapon that took the defiant edge out of Mohinder who had to quickly rebuild it and follow through with his overly practiced speech. It was the coldness in Sylar’s reproach however—a shrug of his shoulders and a flat, “Fine,” before he took a sip of tea and carried his dishes to the sink—that warned Mohinder of the trouble brewing within, an extension of his deep indignation for the change.

Most people whom the organization had found and taken under its wing did not want to work with Sylar. His reputation preceded him as well as rumors that Mohinder was the only person who had ever walked away from him first and survived. Most people did not want to test that theory. A couple of people volunteered, either reluctantly or out of curiosity, to work with him (“Death wishes,” Peter had muttered) but they rarely lasted beyond one or two outings. If it wasn’t actual death at Sylar’s hand it was the hint of it.

As annoyed as Mohinder was, fuming at Sylar’s reckless behaviour, a part of him was unconscionably flattered that Sylar only responded—connected—with him. A sense of self-worth came in the strangest ways.

Then there was Diego.

Those stories hit Mohinder harder than any of the others. It was one thing to know that Sylar and Diego (unsurprisingly) got along, but way before Peter brought it up in the diner, Mohinder had heard that Sylar had and Diego had become quite the team, working like one machine to find and bring in Specials while fighting those who would pose a threat. On a grand scale it was a good thing, but Mohinder was bothered by the one question he could answer—why was Sylar okay with collecting abilities via Diego’s help (and certainly under the radar since they were explicitly not supposed to do that) without killing the people he was taking from? Sylar was never the type to share. He was all about being unique.

Mohinder wondered if he was more bothered by Sylar’s surely selfishly motivated reasoning behind the change in his method of operation or by the very real possibility that Diego was the reason he had turned over a new leaf?

  
************ ********** ********** ********** **********  
**

On the steps of the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue, Mohinder sits with a sandwich during his lunch break. He is surprised when Diego appears beside him, his own lunch in hand. They go through the typical formal banter (“Hi, how are you?” “Nice weather, finally”), but even though he and Diego have always gotten along quite well, Mohinder is immediately curious and skeptical about what has prompted the unexpected visit. He immediately thinks of Sylar.

Mohinder rolls the aluminum foil that had been wrapped around his sandwich into a ball and tosses it into the brown paper bag he had kept in place under his right foot to keep the wind from blowing it away. He folds the top of the bag down and stares ahead at the collection of people scattered across the steps and sidewalk, a mix of New Yorkers and tourists, while cars (mostly taxis) try to outmaneuver each other on the street.

“You know, working with different people has never been a problem for me,” Diego says as he rewraps his half eaten falafel and lays it on the step beside him. “Mom said I had a gift.”

Mohinder looks his way. “You have a positive disposition. People respond to that.”

“Yeah, but there still needs to be some sort of trust.” Diego turns in his seat to watch the businesswoman walking down the steps behind him then settles his sights back on Mohinder. “And trust has to be earned.”

Unsure where the conversation is heading, or why it has taken such a serious turn, Mohinder wrinkles his brow contemplatively. “Always. Sometimes it takes longer than others.” His words are said thoughtfully, slowly and leadingly.

Diego returns his gaze for a pondering few seconds then looks to the street and mutters, “Or not at all.”

Confused, Mohinder pushes for the point. “Is there something on your mind?”

“He doesn’t talk about you.”

The statement, delivered (unintentionally) with the sting of a jab, is enough to halt Mohinder and twist his stomach. Regret, indifference (_heartbreak_), disappointment, rush him all at once. He swallows hard and fists the paper bag in his left hand.

“It’s not as if there would be a lot to talk about.” He brushes off the implication behind Diego’s declaration. He notices the small smile that turns up the corners of Diego’s mouth, presumably amused that they both know who they are speaking of. His expression then falls serious again.

“Un-fucking-likely,” Diego clips his reply, causing Mohinder to raise his eyebrow questioningly. “It’s not that there isn’t much to say. He doesn’t talk about you _at all_.”

_So long. Farewell. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out. _

Mohinder stares down at his hands and the wrinkled paper bag while a barrage of thoughts battle each other in his head. A chill fills the air and he shivers in an attempt to push it off. “I’m not sure what you want me to say.”

Diego waits a second before replying. “We’re getting along okay but I don’t want make the mistake of stepping on his toes—or whatever it was that went down between you two, because god knows he doesn’t take it too well. The problem is I don’t know what I’m avoiding.”

_He’s trying to forget.  
_  
Mohinder has never taken kindly to being backed into a corner. He shifts on his seat to face Diego more directly. “Neither do I,” he states firmly.

Diego’s dark eyes narrow slightly with the hint of an annoyed roll barely perceptible. “All I know about you two, besides the fact that you seemed to get along when I first met you both, is what’s in his file and what Peter’s told me…which seems to be the Cliff Notes version.” He leans towards Mohinder and lowers his voice. “_I’m_ the one who brings you up, not him, and he’s quick to change the subject. Why?”

Mohinder shakes his head and licks his lower lip, biting it. He edges away from Diego and clears his throat, flitting his eyes to the people around them. Grabbing the paper bag in both hands between his knees he says, “Look, our history is complicated. It should have no bearing on the two of you. It’s water under the bridge.”

Diego scoffs and stretches his legs out in front of him. With his torn blue jeans, black Converse and a green t-shirt that reads Club Med Not Seals, he looks like an overgrown slacker, complete with shaggy dark brown hair pulled into a messy ponytail. “Do you guys practice reading from the same book of stock answers? The art of saying nothing—that’s great.”

“The truth is,” Mohinder says, “there’s nothing to tell. He’s always been closed off to a degree.”

_White lie. _

It is one of the more blatant fibs that Mohinder has ever tried to pass off as truth. Sylar has rarely been closed off with him, not even when he was trying to manipulate Mohinder for the list. That was something that always touched a nerve with Mohinder upon reflection—Sylar did open up to Mohinder, and whether it was a debatable point they agreed upon or not, it was put out on the table in some fashion; even if it took some careful observation and listening skills to decipher it. It was partly why Mohinder walked away when he did, the closer they approached the point of no return.

Judging by the vaguely confused look on Diego’s face, a mix of a lined brow and half opened mouth, it is clear he does not believe the lie either.

“Bullshit.” Diego stands up and stares down at him. He smiles and Mohinder realizes he is not as ticked off as he appears.

Mohinder moves to his feet with deliberate slowness, conveying his own irritation at the impromptu interrogation regarding personal matters best left alone. Sylar’s apparent coldness about him leaves Mohinder unsure if Sylar is too raw to deal with what has transpired between them if he really has made strides in moving on. Either way Mohinder knows full well the hypocrisy of his own reaction. After all, he is the one who put it in motion.

“I ain’t trying to cause trouble,” Diego says as he thrusts his hands into his pockets. “I just don’t want any.”

Mohinder sighs in understanding and folds his arms across his chest. “I hear that the two of you are a great team—which is good for the work that needs to be done. Considering Sylar doesn’t take too…_easily_ with others, that’s a big thing. Don’t concern yourself with issues that I promise you _don’t_ matter. Honestly, he seems to be getting on with you better than he ever did with any of the rest of us.”

An awkward silence hangs between with the noise of the city providing the ambient soundtrack. Mohinder sees Diego’s eyes soften at his words and wonders how it was exactly that his name came up in conversations with Sylar; why and how it played out, questionably enough to raise Diego’s attention. He considers that if Diego and Sylar are as close they seem, that this meeting is a way of feeling out if the tide has definitely turned, permanently, in another direction.

_Keep moving. There’s nothing left to see.  
_  
Mohinder muffles a resigned laugh and glances at the steps then back to Diego. “You probably have the edge with him over the rest of us.” He quickly looks at his wrist, hardly glancing at his watch, and stares at the street. “My lunch break is over. I have to go.”

Unfolding his arms he reaches out with his right hand to shake Diego’s goodbye. Diego grips him tightly, forcibly keeping him where he is. Startled, Mohinder furrows his brow.

Diego’s eyes search his. “We good, Mohinder?”

Mohinder regards him carefully.

_Let go.  
_  
“Absolutely,” Mohinder says with smile.

Diego nods and releases his grip. Mohinder gives him one last look over his shoulder as he jogs down the steps.

  
************ ********** ********** ********** **********  
**

A week later Sylar shows up at Mohinder’s apartment in the middle of a Saturday afternoon. Although they have seen each other in mixed company over the last year, it is the first time they are alone since officially parting ways.

Mohinder fights the dual instinct to not recoil or move closer, both actions almost beyond his control. Sylar, standing in the middle of his apartment, doing nothing more than watching him, is an enigmatic figure. Just as Mohinder remembers him best—tall, lean, black boots, black jeans, fitted lightweight gray sweater, short hair messed in different directions and two days worth of growth on his face—Sylar’s presence is as commanding as his intellectual prowess.

Mohinder muses that his own look—sneakers, blue jeans and an unbuttoned paisley shirt over a fitted purple t-shirt—completes their odd couple contrast; a fact that transcends superficial mismatches and reinforces the strength that has always existed in their differences. He silently appraises Sylar who has begun a slow walk about the apartment.

“Diego scrounging for trade secrets from you on how to neutralize me?” Sylar asks stonily, stopping in front of one of the bookshelves and trailing his left hand across their spines, his head tilted thoughtfully to the side.

“Hardly,” Mohinder says and Sylar glances his way. “He wanted to know if he should take your condescending silence personally.”

Sylar, tipping one book out of place pushes it back into the row and turns towards Mohinder. A smirk graces his face alongside a raised eyebrow. “And what was your advice?”

“I told him that it’s always personal with you, but if he’s still alive at the end of the day, then he’s doing well.” Mohinder stands his ground, lifting his head back to appear unaffected by Sylar’s unsettling countenance.

“Good boy.” Sylar’s response is sly and Mohinder wrinkles up his nose with distaste for the sentiment. Sylar’s stern expression falters briefly before he reins it in to one that is distinctly impassive. He looks Mohinder up and down, turning away from the shelves and casually moves towards Mohinder who holds his gaze and shifts a few inches to the side so that their shoulders only lightly brush as Sylar walks by him.

“You haven’t changed much,” comments Sylar with a nod to the apartment. Mohinder hears the personal jab that trails the seemingly innocuous words.

“I’m not here as much as I used to be.” Mohinder turns on his heels to face him. “This place may stay the same but life _does_ go on.”

Sylar, as his usual observant self, must hear the cool remark about his own apparent ease with setting their past aside as its own rigid entity, picked up and turned over with little concern for the long term consequences. It is an immature play by Mohinder, he knows that, still he cannot help but strike out at Sylar for the hurt he has held deep down for so long, a hurt different from the one he should feel regarding Sylar. This one is far more convoluted while being indecently straightforward.

Sylar tilts his head forward and peers up from beneath heavyset eyebrows, his lips pulled into a sneer. “So it would seem—water under the bridge.”

Mohinder’s heart speeds up and his mouth is suddenly sticky dry as he realizes Diego has spoken with Sylar about their meeting.

“Tell me Mohinder, did you and Peter share notes on my progress, carefully fine tuning all of it until you could flip the switch like dear old dad?”

Mohinder should not be shocked at the vitriol that comes from Sylar, but is the wrong assumption being cast as irrefutable fact that rankles his resolves to set the record straight. He defensively folds his arms across his chest and takes a step forward, despite the possibly volcanic tension coming off of Sylar. “What the hell are you on about? I’ve made my peace with the past. Haven’t you yet? I’m _not_ my father.”

“Are you sure about that?” Sylar challenges and follows through with his own steps forward. “Building me up with expectations and promises, then walking away. Sound familiar?”

“I see your need to shift responsibility is still intact,” Mohinder states, clear and firm. “Exactly what promises did I break to you?”

They glare at each other and when Sylar steps to the right to push past, Mohinder counters to the left to block him. Sylar moves left and Mohinder moves right. A forceful nudge of telekinesis pushes Mohinder further to the right and Sylar rolls his eyes at him as he walks by.

“It’s all working out better than expected,” Mohinder parrots Peter’s words from their last meeting. “You and Diego are good together. You’ve been…”

Mohinder heads to the window, peeking outside, then turns and leans against the sill, resting his hands on either side. “Helpful to our side. He certainly lets you get away with more than I would. I don’t see the problem.”

“There is no _problem_.” Sylar’s reply is quick. “He and I have an _understanding_.”

“Well isn’t that special,” Mohinder interrupts, pushing up from the sill, his feelings a mess, being mad at Sylar for finding someone else and mad at himself for being so bothered by it.

Sylar steps in his path as he approaches and grabs his left arm with a bruising grip. “It is actually. I don’t waste my time.”

Mohinder tries to wrench his arm free but Sylar only tightens his hold and says in a harsh whisper, “May I remind you, _you_ were the one who walked away.”

“So did you,” Mohinder snaps.

Sylar drops his grip dramatically causing Mohinder to fall forward a bit and forcing him to correct the momentum as he rights himself.

“Was I supposed to wallow for your friendship?” Sylar jeers. “Lament the loss?”

“No!” Mohinder raises his arms in the air. “That’s the point.” He puts his back to Sylar, allowing himself some time to collect his thoughts and turns around to find Sylar eyeing him discerningly. “There shouldn’t _be_ anything. Not after everything that has happened—and I don’t just mean with my father, Brian Davis, Eden or _Zane_. I don’t just mean working _with_ you _after_ you turned into Nathan. Because it all—all of it—goes hand in hand. There’s no picking and choosing what we wish would take precedence. Of anyone, _you_ know that.”

Sylar narrows his eyes in inquisitive curiosity, his confusion undisguised. They both know that Mohinder is talking about what _should be_ versus what _actually is_.

“Why make things more complicated?” Sylar’s inflection is reaching, unconvinced of his words and Mohinder’s assertion.

Mohinder turns his face half away from him then glances back. “What else could it be?” The question is rhetorical.

_Everything._

Sylar fights him back in the stare down that ensues before bitterly toning, “So this is your brilliant plan—denial, playing dead?”

_Biting off one paw to save the rest.  
_  
“How long do you think you can play this game of pretend?” Sylar demands, refusing to leave Mohinder’s space.

“How long can you?” Mohinder asks, jutting his face forward. “You think if we…that it will suddenly wipe out all the bad things and make everything okay? You really think it will all be sunshine and roses?”

“I’m not delusional.” Sylar grits his teeth. “I know what it means.”

“Do you?” Mohinder is insistent to ensure they are on the same page. “Because it’s not just about us. There are other people—lives—that are affected. There’s a much bigger picture. I can’t ask them to understand what even I’m not sure…I can’t do that to them.”

“But you can do it to me?” Sylar’s response would sound flippant if it weren’t so cold and vulnerable.

Mohinder sees the tiny cracks in Sylar’s otherwise tough veneer. Anyone else probably would not catch the fleeting flinch in the minute twitch of his left eye, or the way his lips part then close together, then part, or the way his breathing deepens, thumping his chest up and down. Mohinder imagines his own face betrays the near callousness of his speech, surely revealing the difficulty of the sacrifice he is asking both of them to make.

“You’ll survive,” Mohinder says reverently. “That’s what you do.”

Sylar purses his lips, biting back his tongue. With a small step back, he drops his gaze to the floor. The quiet between them is deafening. Mohinder bites the inside of his bottom lip, inflicting a sharp pain to stop himself from backtracking and to remind himself that this is really happening. He watches Sylar put his hands in his pockets, still staring at the floor.

“I’m going to go,” Sylar says flatly, looking up to return his gaze.

No.

Mohinder nods. “Wait—I’ve got something of yours."

He walks past Sylar and heads to the bedroom. Heading straight to the nightstand he opens the drawer and pulls out Sylar’s watch. He is startled to turn around and find Sylar right behind him. He jumps, but Sylar’s attention is on the watch. Mohinder holds it out to him and when Sylar does not move, Mohinder pushes it more forcefully at him.

Sylar reaches for it but does not take it out of Mohinder’s hand. Rather, Sylar steps closer, angling himself just behind Mohinder’s right side and fits the fingers of his right hand over Mohinder’s while his left one feels to be lightly grazing Mohinder’s hip. Sylar turns his and Mohinder’s right hands so that the watch’s face is the main focus, but Mohinder’s mind is filled with the feel of Sylar’s body touching his, their hands together, and the calm breathing that plays out between them, diffusing the frustrated tension and replacing it with…

_Kiss me._

Sylar steps away, dropping Mohinder’s hand, and quietly says, “Keep it.”

Mohinder widens his eyes in surprise. “What?”

“I don’t need it,” Sylar says with no emotion. “Got a new one long ago.”

Mohinder tries to ascertain whether Sylar is being deliberately indifferent or truly does not care. Mohinder is unexpectedly put off by the way Sylar appears uninterested in a watch that had once meant so much to him, something that had been so laced in sentimental value that Mohinder had subconsciously held onto it to give it back. And now it seems Mohinder would have been better to toss it, so uncaring does Sylar appear.

“What would I want with it?” Mohinder narrows his eyes, agitation clear in his tone.

Sylar’s face does not harden into strong lines and cutting angles as he regards Mohinder. It remains soft and inviting. “Eidetic memory,” he finally says.

Mohinder looks to the side, pulling from his own memory the information that Sylar had killed a waitress named Charlie for that very ability. He returns Sylar’s gaze, but with uncertainty not antagonism about what is being said.

Sylar looks down at the floor and puts his hands back in his pockets. He takes a small step forward and, with his head still angled down, turns his eyes up to Mohinder’s, appearing both bashful and unwavering. “I remember _everything_.”

Without warning a burst of warmth rushes over Mohinder’s body, flushing his face, as the implication of Sylar’s words grips his mind, pounds his heart and tightens his stomach.

“I…I want you keep the watch,” Sylar says more forcefully.

_To remember.  
_  
Mohinder brings the watch back towards his body and looks down at it, then offers Sylar a broken smile of regret and thanks. Palming the watch, he fists it at his side. He is at a loss for what to say, if there is anything that would even suffice. But the longer the awkward silence drags out and he is fixed in Sylar’s gaze, the more tempted Mohinder is take back everything he has said, declaring instead that they should give in to what they both obviously want.

_A momentary lapse in judgement._

Feel. Don’t think.  
  
They both begin to speak, instinctively moving towards each other, when the cellphone in Mohinder’s pocket crashes through the room. Disappointment flickers across Sylar’s face and Mohinder dejectedly fishes the cell out of his pocket. _Peter Petrelli_ is lit up on the display. Mohinder considers ignoring it.

“I’ll take off.”

Mohinder looks up at Sylar, now the perfect image of annoyance—a roll of his eyes and his lips in a tight line. Mohinder begins, “You don’t—,”

“Goodbye, Mohinder.”

_It’s for the best._

Sighing, Mohinder gives him a deliberately official, exaggerated nod, void of anything friendly or too personal. It functions as a purely professional acknowledgement of the new terms to which they have agreed.

Sylar stays as is for another second then heads to the front door.

_Goodbye._

Mohinder steps into the hallway and waits for Sylar to open the front door, then turns his back and answers the cell. He hears the click of the front door lock shifting back into place.


End file.
